delicate little flower,
i don't know how to speak the language of the perfect– i can only try not to let violence seep off of my anger
as how these words stain the pages,
so there's no other way to tell you this

i've been told you cannot claim what you cannot touch,
so do know this love will never meet your grasp
for
i will break your wrists,
those outstretched hands of yours, little bird, i will tear them from your limbs
i will pour gasoline in your rosebud mouth and light a match against your soft,naked cheek
after the flames,there would be nothing left to fear in the ruins

chained in strings of unsaid words that have strangled me in my sleep a hundred days ago,
you will subsist on crumbs and leftovers of my love, as how i had waited on the scraps of your heart long before
i will make you bleed until you strain your lungs screaming,pleading to be spared
but my dear,
your tears cannot move me, that anguish will rain,feeding the earth as
your agony fuels my desire to feel

all of hell will never compare to the fiery pits of rage where i shall leave you to rot,tangled with the remains of the boy whose love you had
love will save you after all,will it not?

the heavens might pity you, attempt to end your suffering before i slit open that pretty little throat, so be rest assured that your corpse will meet my blade soon enough
and your measly flesh will weigh the same way i did while you had me beneath you–when i carried so much of you yet still felt less inside–
i will bury you beneath my sanctuary where i'll live out my days,
where i do not have to starve to be beautiful like you,
where i do not have to be used and destroyed to be loved like you,
where i do not have to be someone who can't be you
and there
i will not wait for anyone to bring me flowers that i know have graced your heart first,
i will grow a garden above your grave as the worms have their way with you down in the dirt where you belong ,
and you can take my heart with you
–W.